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One of these nights will cause him to lose it, Aleksander Morozova knows, one more night at another ostentatious party thrown by his employer, desperate to show off his status and wealth (and even more desperate for Aleksander and his people to keep the money flowing in while hiding the particulars of just how that happens) - and now, the first chance he gets to slip out, his fucking lighter isn’t working.
“Excuse me,” he asks a mousy intern lurking nearby, straining to turn on the tired remains of his charm and tossing her a “-nice shoes,” because they’re not half bad, cheap but gold and sparkly, eye catching in a way she herself isn’t, “you wouldn’t happen to have a light, by chance?”
“Oh, sure - and thanks,” the girl says, babbling some nonsense about not smoking herself but carrying a lighter for her friend that he half listens to, reaching out without thought to shield her wavering flame.
When her fingers blaze with light on contact with his, half his cigarette going up in ash before his shocked inhale even reaches it, the girl’s eyes wide, flaring gold as her shoes, Aleksander knows this much - his night just got far more interesting.